


Call Box (1-2-3)

by StarvingForAttention



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Horror Elements, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarvingForAttention/pseuds/StarvingForAttention
Summary: There is no way Wilson is going to fall for yet another obvious trap. An inexplicable telephone box isdefinitelynot something he wishes to tamper with.But then again, curiosity is the mother of science...
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	Call Box (1-2-3)

Wilson's first instinct upon seeing the telephone box was to make a fresh batch of gunpowder and blow it to smithereens.

His second instinct was to avoid it. Yes, it was a curious object to find standing alone in a field, but the same had applied to the winter-summoning ice box and the exploding beefalo pen. Did Maxwell think Wilson an idiot? He made sure to give the trap a wide berth each time he passed by.

It was only in the following spring, as he was on his way to hunt down some seafood at the swamp (why a swamp was the best place for that was a question he had stopped asking himself a long time ago), that he changed his mind and approached the box, leaving his spear on the ground as he did so. Yes, it would likely catch fire as soon as he touched it, but after a long, desolate winter, he was starving as much for intellectual stimulation as for fishsticks.

Besides, he could never quite shake the hope that this time, just this once, things would be different.

The box's casing was painted a bright bold red, spotless but for a few specks of rust gathering at the corners. No other markings, not even an emblem. Just a plain metal cube at the end of a short pole, with a door at the front.

From the first touch, the hinges creaked like a violin that hadn't been toned in a century. Wilson hastened away, but nothing further happened. Emboldened, he slung the door open.

It was indeed a telephone. He eyed the ornate handset, silver with a polished black handbar, with the greatest of suspicions, then with growing curiosity. There was nothing else inside. No dialler. No switch. Not even a button.

Wilson's mind supplied the term from his long-lost time in civilisation. A callbox. Those usually still had a switch of some description, though. No doubt this machine worked with the same logic which allowed him to make waterproof fabric out of grass. If it worked.

A vision flashed in his mind, of a large parasite ready to crawl into his ear canal and infest his brain, but all the same he felt compelled to pick up the handset and hold it to his head. It felt oddly warm, like it had been baking in the summer heat for hours, something he quickly forgot when he picked up sound. A static dialling tone, faint and unvarying.

Excitement surging, Wilson looked through every single inch of the box in hopes of finding a secret panel or at least _something._ Nothing. There weren't even bolts keeping the thing together, except at the hinges.

He hung the handset back, more confused by the moment. What was the point? Did Maxwell think littering the landscape with vaguely familiar objects would break his spirit? If so, he was completely off his mark. Wilson had never cared much for phones. You didn't need one when you had no-one to call.

He picked up his spear and walked away.

* * *

It was only in the dead of winter, after forgetfulness and long illness had led him to be ambushed by the Deerclops and rushing into the night with only a torch to guide him, that he stopped by the callbox again.

He barely looked at it as he built up his fire, shivering to the bone. Once the crackling flames thawed out the worst of his deathly numbness, however, his eyes kept turning towards it time and time again. It stood there as obnoxiously red and solitary as ever. Of all the things in the snow-covered land, it alone didn't have even so much as a dusting of frost on it.

Finally, after roasting and consuming the two sad carrots that were the only food he could find in his backpack, he dedicated himself once again to science.

He was more thorough in his examination than he had been in the spring, rapping his knuckles against the metal even after they began to ache. It was curiously warm to the touch, but that was the extent of his new discoveries.

Sighing, he picked up the handset. The dial tone greeted him like an old friend. Now that he thought about it, the sound was perhaps a semitone higher than what he was used to. A key to discovering all the secrets of the Constant, no doubt.

"Good day to you, nothingness." He did his best impression of a straitlaced radio host. "This is Wilson Higgsbury calling in from the forsaken lands. Today's shipping forecast looks turbulent indeed. We expect a great blizzard and gales not seen on these shores since 1886. Shiver yer timbers, matey!"

He chuckled dryly to himself — it hardly mattered how bad or non-existent his jokes were when there was no audience to them — and was just about to put the handset down when something unexpected happened.

The dial tone broke.

_"Hello? Is someone there?"_

In his haste to respond, Wilson nearly dropped the handset, and as he was retrieving it, he banged his head against the box's door. Rubbing his aching brow, he snatched the handset and held it so tightly to his ear his knuckles turned white. "Yes, I'm here! Who is this?"

 _"I'm Abigail."_ It was faint, bird-like voice. A small child, most likely, or else a very young lady, but more importantly _human_ , wonderfully human. _"...Who are you?"_

"My name is Wilson Higgsbury. I'm a scientist." How lovely it felt to say those words to someone who understood what they meant. How long had it been since he had last heard a human voice that wasn't Maxwell's? Heck, when had he even last heard from Maxwell?

The thought made his heart sink. If he was able to speak with Abigail, odds were the child was likewise trapped in the Constant. "Abigail, are you safe where you are? Where are you?"

 _"I'm fine. I'm not hurt."_ There was a pause. _"But my sister is injured. I killed the hound that bit her, but..."_ Abigail trailed off suddenly, her despondency radiating even across the telephone line.

"Your sister?" Who would trap children in a place like this? The lowest of low scum.

 _"Wendy. She built a fire, but she's losing blood."_ Another pause. _"I think she's going to die."_

"Where are you, Abigail?" Braving the elements in his shirtsleeves for any longer than necessary was pure folly, but how could he live with himself if he allowed these children to perish now that he knew of them just because he was afraid of freezing? His beard would shield him from the brunt of the night frost, anyway. "I'll come and save you!"

 _"Um..."_ Another pause, during which Abigail presumably looked around herself. _"We're near the sea. There are those birch-like trees everywhere around us."_

That narrowed it down to two locations. In opposite directions, because what else could Wilson expect with his luck? "Anything else?"

 _"I don't think so."_ Abigail sounded like she was admitting to stealing from the biscuit jar when she said so. _"Just one more thing. There was a lump of marble near the path when were first ran into the hounds."_

Wilson heaved a sigh of relief. Finally, a true lead. "Do you mean a statue?"

_"I suppose so. It was just a big lump. A little like melted ice cream."_

Wilson nodded, then hesitated. He believed he had seen something that fit the description. Problem was, it had been nowhere near a forest, birchnut or otherwise. "So, it's not in the woods?"

 _"It's next to it."_ Abigail's voice crackled, as if the frost had invaded the telephone line. _"There's a huge swamp on the other side. We try not to go there, so I don't know what else there is in that direction."_

Not his swamp, in other words: that ended on a sheer cliff to the ocean on three sides. He tried not to sigh. "I'm sorry, Abigail. I'll try to find you, of course, but I'm not sure—"

An idea struck him, so simple he couldn't believe it hadn't come to him sooner. It was still a long shot due to the time cost and the amount of work involved, but... "Abigail, is the callbox you're using in the forest as well?"

There was a hushed silence at the other end. When Abigail next spoke, she sounded very careful. _"There isn't a callbox."_

No doubt she was confused by the terminology. Wilson reminded himself that he was speaking to a child. "I meant the telephone. Can you describe its location to me?"

_"There is no telephone."_

Wilson frowned. "Then how are you calling me?"

There was dead silence for a few more seconds. Then, as abruptly as the call that begun, the line went cold.

"Hello? Abigail!"

No use: the dial tone returned, almost insolent in its monotone beeping.

Wilson cursed. He tried resetting and picking the handset up again. When that failed, he banged it against the casing. Nothing but dial tone. If Abigail was still there, he couldn't hear her.

Lacking other options, he did what he had intended to do anyway. His essential toolkit, the only thing he had managed to snag when the Deerclops had snuck upon him, included a shovel. He wielded it now, intent on digging the telephone line from the ground and following it to wherever it led, well aware it could take a small eternity.

At least, that was the plan. The earth had frozen solid. After an half an hour of toil he had managed to unveil all of two inches of wire.

By then, his fire was dying out. He yelped and rushed to fix it.

After the flames rose up back up, he didn't return to work. Instead, he crouched down to stare at them, wondering how to proceed.

So, he wasn't alone. That was a greater comfort than any he could have expected, even if the circumstances at the other end of the line sounded heart-wrenchingly dire. Finding those kids was the obvious next goal. Something to live for, even. Where could they be, exactly? Abigail had to be mistaken about their surroundings. Or perhaps there was some nook, or even an island, that Wilson was yet to discover? Perhaps he could—

The telephone rang.

He was on his feet before he had time to think about it and answered the phone by the second ring. "Abigail! Can you hear me?"

No response. But it wasn't exactly silence he heard. It was too distant, too distorted by the copper and earth between him and his interlocutor to actually make out, but there was something on the other end. Somehow, it reminded him of spiders.

He tried again. "Hello? Abigail?"

_W̵̝̿ȩ̸̿ d̸̜̄ơ̷̫ ̷n̸̩̒ó̸͈t̷̯̽ n̴̺̐e̴̩͝e̴̗̕d̴̻̿ ̶͆ ỷ̵̯o̵̗̎ủ̵̧ t̵͈͑o̴̺̓ ̷ s̶͙͠p̸̣̊e̸̯͑a̶̯̒k̵̰̔,̴̫͂ p̵̧ǎ̴̝ẅ̶̘́n̵̞̍ ̴̥͗ W̸e̸̢͆ ̸̃ṇ̶͛é̶̫ẻ̷̺d̸̘̀ y̷̝̏o̷̖̾ů̵͔ t̸͕͊ò̴̩ li̷̲̚s̷̛͇ten̷̢͝.̵̦͗_

Wilson froze. "Maxwell?" But it hadn't sounded like Maxwell, not even a little. The voice had been the audial equivalent of a swarm of bees in a trench coat trying to pass for a human.

 _ _ _W̸ẻ̸̱ ̷͓̋a̵̹̎r̴e nỏ̵̡t M̶͓̍a̷̘̓x̴ẘ̶̦ē̷͙ll̵͓͗,___ the voice confirmed, as though that had truly been in doubt.

"Then w- I mean, who are you?"

__W̸ẻ̸̱ ̷͓̋a̵̹̎r̴e._ _

Wilson waited for several moments before he understood the voice had meant that as a full statement. He sighed. Was he speaking to a pigman with a wasp's nest stuck in its throat? "Listen—"

_We̸̢̎ å̶͇l̴͕̊r̸͇̓e̷̝͒ad̸̪̅y ẇ̶̫ȧ̴̬r̴͍͂n̷̻̐e̴̼͑d̵̝̃ y̵͚͑ö̶̰ȗ̴͎,̶ pa̴̩͠ẁ̴̝ǹ̶̨ **.̵̧̓ .̶̢̱̞̬̗̲̰̲̄̿̕ ̵͖͖͖̋͑̿͝L̵̤̖̦̼̳̻͇̈́i̸͓̥̹̟͎̣̊̅͊͐̈̈́s̴͇̲͂̀͊̉͂͝ͅẗ̸̯̥́͒̃̿ẻ̵̢̜̱̲̥̣͒͊̍̐̕n̴̰͈͚̙̩̜̈́͑.̶̩̘̮̗̖͋̈́̇̂͂͝"̷̦͛̈́**_

The final spiky word felt like a knife stabbing straight into Wilson's brain matter.

He gasped without meaning to as the world went black around him and then returned. His temple, finally settled down from when he had bruised it, began to throb again. He clutched it hard, barely catching the voice's next words.

_L̷͈͂i̸̬͊s̸͍͠t̶̠͠e̷̬̔n̶̻̚,̷̨͝ p̷̰̌a̶̱͐ẉ̵̓n̴̩͝.̶̺̋ L̸̤͝ȋ̶͎s̷͈̓t̷̖͠e̸̲̅n̸͈͋.̶͇̓_

Wilson breathed in through his nose. Fine. He got the gist of the game. A game he could end by hanging up as soon as his curiosity was sated.

But that was just it, wasn't it? He discovered he genuinely wished to know what the owner of the bizarre voice had to say. Even a straw was better than thin air when it came to having something to grasp.

Now, if only he could understand what the heck the voice was saying.

 _Ý̶̨o̶̲͝ǘ̶͚ ȃ̴͇r̴̮̔ë̸̲́ ̸̐ s̷̺̕l̵͓͝o̷͙͂w̴̓͜,̷̼͑ pä̴̫́w̴̬ǹ̸̺,̵̨͗_ the voice continued, finally satisfied with Wilson's silence. _Ǐ̶̱f̴̪̔ ÿ̴̻́o̶͖͗ụ̸̅ ̷̭͂ gr̴̼̈ò̷̻w̵̛̪ m̶̠̈́u̷̹͘c̶͖͋h̸̳͂ ̴ ta̸͓͆r̵͇̕d̵̢̎i̶͕͘e̵̛͎ŕ̷͓,̵̜͋ y̷͇͐o̸̠͗u̵̲͂ w̵͈͗ĩ̶͙l̵̹̾ḻ̵̆ f̶̧̂i̵̻͌n̴͔͝d̸͖̓ yǒ̵͇u̶̻̓r̷͇͛s̶͙̈́e̵̞l̷̫̋f̴̠ i̷͉̇n̸̫͝ ̴̛̘ d̵̟̆a̶̱͘n̷̺̒ge̸͖̾r̵̿͜ ̸̧̀_

Danger? When was the last time Wilson had __not__ been in danger? "From you, I assume?"

 **Ń̸͈͖ö̷̬́** A shadow of the spikiness returned, a numbing discomfort that spread down Wilson's neck and made him shudder. ___J̵͎̄u̸̻͒s̴̰̈́ẗ̷̢́ l̴̼͐i̵͓k̸̗̅ȅ̵ͅ h̶͓ị̴͛m̸̺͑,̸̗͝ y̵̙̋o̷͉͂u̷̟͠ ̵̃ͅ al̸̛̳l̴̥̃ọ̵͝w̶̺̔ ̸̠̑ y̶̧͝o̵̪̐u̵̜͋r̶̛̥s̸̝͗e̵̘̒l̵̝̈́f̴̪̍ ̴ t̸͔͐ö̸̩́ ̴̨̿ b̸̲̀e̴͙̒ ̶̰̓ l̷̨e̴͕̐d̸̦̒ ̴͕̒ â̸͉ș̶̕t̸͎̆r̸̡̄ȁ̷̲y̶̫̕ ̸̼̌ by̵̝͝ ̵͔̒ p̴̼̾ọ̵͐î̸͍n̴̒ͅṱ̸̓l̵̬̈é̴͉s̶͈̚s̴̨͝ de̷̺͋t̵̳̊ȃ̵ͅi̷̮̒ľ̶ͅs̵̖̋.̶̪̓ ̷̬͑Th̵͙̿e̴͇̽r̶̼͐e̶͕̓ ̴̘̊is̷͐͜ n̷̥̽o̵̢̅ ̴͒ro̷̬̕o̴͈̿m̶̼̏ ̷ f̵̬́õ̸͇ṛ̵͒ ̵͍ h̴̺̍e̶̹͘d̶̹́o̵͙̚n̷͉͘ĭ̸͍s̶̨̅m̶̨͝ ẃ̴̫h̷͋ͅe̸̱̓n̵͇ tḣ̶̨e̷̺͘r̶̙͑e̵̝͛ i̶̺̇s̶̕ͅ a̷̲̐ g̴͙͊ă̶͕m̵͖͗e̴̡͒ t̴͙̏ȯ̶̫ p̸̬̓l̷̦̈́a̴̤̍y̶̫͒.̷͔̾___

Wilson was straining to understand the words. _Him?_ Maxwell? And _hedonism?_ All this made less sense by the minute.

The voice droned on heedless of his confusion. _ _ _Yö̵̯́u̸̖̒ f̵̰ä̶̡́i̷͚̊l̷͚͊ to̸̢͘ ̵̡̅sḛ̴̽ê̶͉ ̴ǒ̴ͅū̴̱r̸̫̉ ̴̾tr̸̿u̸͆e̵̳̊ p̷̥û̸͈r̶̺̈́p̷̭̓o̶̞̍s̸͇̅ĕ̵͖.̸̤͐  
___

At some point, all the blood in Wilson's veins had turned to ice. He gripped the handset twice as hard to ensure it didn't fall from his numbing fingers. "And what is that purpose?"

 __It̸͔̄ ̷̏ is̶̠̈_ _ __o̷̪͐n̵͕͝ĺ̷̞y̸̱͑ r̷̛̰e̵̟͘v̵͖͠e̶͖̿ȁ̸̭l̸̞̓ê̷̗d̶̢͝ ṱ̵͝o̶̰̓ ̸̟̕th̶̼̋o̷͍͌s̷̹e̴̋͜ w̴͓͑ḧ̶̠ọ̵̿__ _ _̶̫́ **s̴̢͙͚͙̳̟͚̔̍̊̒ͅe̵͇̬͌̔͊̍͌̈e̴͈̩͒̂̅͘.̶͙̮̪̩̗̤̥̊͋̅́͘͜** _  
__ _

The final word pierced Wilson from ear to ear, like a sword pushed right through his skull.

He sunk down as the darkness returned, handset slipping from his fingers and left dangling by the cord. Only his hands moved, instinctively covering his ears as all other aches and discomforts faded into the static now filling his head.

His eyes opened. Problem was, he hadn't opened them.

_**We do not warn you in vain.** _

He had thought he was in pain before. This was something different: an all-encompassing, paralysing agony, coursing through his veins and radiating through his skull, like he was being struck by lightning and it never ended and the voice was in his head, it was in his mind make it stop make it stop make it s _top_

_**Heed Our Words, Pawn** _

Wilson couldn't even writhe in place. His entire body had simply locked up. After great effort, a lone squeak escaped from between his lips.

_**Let the Game proceed** _

The ground was swirling again, with all the colours of the rainbow twisted to shadow. Wilson closed his eyes. It did nothing to shut out the voice or the flashes of colour dancing behind his eyelids.

_**Play your Role**  
_

_**Cross the Board** _

_**Become a King** _

The colours exploded.

All strength drained from Wilson as the voice withdrew as abruptly as it had entered. He fell flat onto the ground and lay still as the aftershocks ran through him, a prickling unpleasantness, a remnant of what should have been lethal pain.

But he lived.

He got up slowly, stumbling towards the fire. Towards the light. Away from that hideous voice and its inane demands.

On his third step, there was an audible woosh behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he discovered the callbox fully aflame, utterly consumed in the bright poisonous colours of burning copper.

_Aurora Borealis._

His legs gave out, and he sat down on the frozen ground, barely sensing the icy numbness spreading across his posterior.

A pawn that crosses the board becomes a queen, he thought as he watched the callbox succumb to the fire, and as the last of the acid flames died out and the ashes scattered into the air. Did he misremember that? No, he was positive it was the voice who had gotten it wrong.

And if the voice was wrong about that, it was probably wrong about everything else as well. No need to pay it more mind.

By the time he felt strong enough to move, the sun had already risen. Wilson collected his bearings, relieved to discover his legs functioned again. Intent on taking it slowly, he began his trek back across the snowy plains and towards his ruined camp. With luck, he could still salvage some useful equipment from right under the Deerclops' single staring eye.

Whichever way that panned out, afterwards it would be time to set off on an expedition. An expedition to find a birchnut forest next to a swamp, with a statue depicting melting ice cream in between.


End file.
